Happiness is a Warm Gun
by Lisa Paris
Summary: At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . .
1. Chapter 1

_**'Happiness is a Warm Gun'**_

**Author: - Lisa Paris**

**Rating: - PG**

**Summary: - At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . . **

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_**Part One**_

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_14+ 1bs of cold metal weight. 50 inches of sleek efficiency. .338 calibres of deadly intent and 1100+ metre maximum range._ Special Agent Ian Edgerton shifted position slightly, and rested the _Super Magnum (L115A1)_ against his cheek.

"_Come on, baby,"_ he spoke to it tenderly. _Intimately,_ as though it was a woman. Funny, there was never any question. He always thought of it as _'her.'_ She was more – _so much more_ - than just the tool of his trade. He knew her better than any lover. He admired and understood her – stroked her and oiled her with care. She was always his number one priority at the end of each working day.

_This_ lady didn't need late night reassurances and she had never let him down yet. He lavished her with anything she needed and treated her with total respect.

She was smooth to the touch and so familiar. An object of exact and deadly British beauty. Built upon precise and slender lines, as she moulded herself compliantly under his hands. He held her against him and caressed her gently, brows knit with absorption. Taut with focus and concentration as he lowered his head and took his time.

It didn't pay to rush a classy lady like this. She needed detail and careful handling. He paid her all the usual tactile compliments, but he knew time was not on their side.

He slid forward slightly on his belly, pulled her closer and shut his left eye. The world shifted and telescoped away from him then, until there was only him and her. The view through the scope swamped his universe. He was so still, he was barely breathing. He watched and assessed for another ten seconds like a hawk suspended over his prey.

Two men, one of them captive. A combat knife held against the base of his ear. One downward slash with a practised hand and the blade would sever his trachea. Not only his trachea, either. It would open up his carotid artery. Inflict probable damage on his spinal cord and slice into his jugular vein. As anatomical feats of engineering went, the neck had a small surface area. There were too many vital structures all compressed into one narrow space.

Edgerton watched grimly. He had no doubt the captor was practised.

He didn't need any Intel to tell him the man was Special Forces trained. It was there in the way he held onto the knife – in the deft, killing position of the blade. Apparent in the sure way he'd immobilised his captive, cutting off his air in a semi-choke hold.

Edgerton zeroed in on the captive. The man was clearly in difficulty. His dark head was drooping forward and his knees had started to sag. There was no doubt he would have fallen if it wasn't for the man holding onto him - _no doubt_ he was finding hard to stand upright – _a lack of oxygen will do that to you._

Ian Edgerton didn't have friends. The path he'd taken was solitary. Life had taught him too many salutary lessons and given him a cynical edge. People were fickle, they let you down. In the end, they merely served their own interests. At the close of the day, there was only one thing he could rely on, and she was right here, smooth and sleek in his hands.

He looked at the barely conscious captive again. He was known to him. Not a faceless stranger. No, Ian Edgerton didn't have friends – but if he did, he might have chosen this man.

Time had become encapsulated along with the parameters of his world. Minutes, seconds, nano-seconds, all counting down on the captive's life. Edgerton knew he had to act soon. The clock was running against them. Whether or not he pulled the trigger, they were _all _running out of time. If he made the kill shot and the captor's hand jerked, the blade would rip home anyway, but he knew if he held out much longer, the hostage would be dead from lack of air.

He didn't even contemplate missing. _Missing_ was not a word in his vocabulary. He'd been doing this for the better part of his life and his target was already good as dead. He gave a wry twitch at his choice of word. No longer a man, but a _target_. The day he started thinking of his targets as people, he might as well book his room in the asylum.

_Distance and de-humanise_ - the first and most important rule of sniping. Anything else, made you bad at your job. Anything else would screw-up your head.

_Oh yeah, he knew what they called him. The bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda._ The Clint Eastwood part always got on his nerves, but the Yoda thing he didn't mind so much. Now, there was a dude or whatever he was, who was one hundred per cent, totally focused. Who could channel himself for days at a stretch and concentrate on one object at a time. Single-minded, patient and Zen-like. The epitome of a good sniper.

The situation was rapidly going to hell. The target was getting more agitated. All attempts at striking a deal had failed and the hostage was becoming heavier. _Dumb crud_ – Edgerton was scornful. _He should have realised the FBI didn't negotiate._ Just because one of their own had swapped himself for a civilian, didn't mean he made a better bargaining chip.

If he had his way, he would take the shot now. Pull the trigger and get it over with. The air was smooth as glass, almost breathless. It was a hot, hazy morning in LA. Hardly any wind resistance to worry about – hardly any drift to calculate. He could almost make this shot with his eyes closed. All in all, it was a perfect shooting day.

"Are you set?"

It was Reeves. He heard the fear in her voice. So well-controlled, it was barely discernable. Like him, she was aware of the consequences of a hit. _Like him,_ she would not contemplate a miss.

"Have been for awhile."

He didn't move, didn't break any concentration. He was totally focused on the target through the ocular. He flicked off the state of the art built-in elevation adjustment. He preferred to work it out by himself.

"We can't afford to wait any longer. It looks like he's cut off Don's air."

"Only one thing I'm waiting for." He wanted her to give him the order. As soon as she gave him the order, this thing would be over and done.

"Go ahead," she spoke quietly. It was also her friend down there.

The calm diffused through his veins like a drug. Like the cooling spread of iced water. The stillness invaded his whole being as he single-mindedly determined on the kill shot. Not the slightest twitch, not a tremor. His hands and his breathing were steady. His mind sank down and separated into layers, as it divorced from the peripheral world.

The target was swaying slightly, struggling with the dead weight of his hostage. It meant the shot had become a little trickier – meant that Eppes was now out for the count. But the most vital factor remained unchanged. The knife was still positioned and ready. The deadly tip pierced the pale skin just beneath Eppes's ear. _A fragile skin's width from inflicting great damage. _A mere reflex away from cutting his throat.

A_ .338 Lapua _calibre bullet smashing into the brain was a pretty effective deterrent. The outcome wasn't in question; most targets dropped like a stone. Others flailed and jerked their limbs as their muscles went into spasm. If _this_ target was one of those suckers – then two men would die today.

For the first time in the course of his entire career, Ian Edgerton hesitated. He realised he was in grave danger of humanising his job, way too close to thinking it all through. This was why so few of his kind lasted. Why he belonged to an elite minority. There was no place here for empathy, no room for bleeding hearts. _Not ever._ Not in his line of work.

_No room for bleeding hearts in his line of work - not unless they'd been ripped open by a bullet. _

The insidious menace of cause and effect. The consequences of pulling the trigger. Once you placed a foot on _that_ rocky road, it was always the beginning of the end. An experienced veteran once told him it was like gazing into the face of the Medusa.

This was one day when he couldn't afford to freeze-up. One day when he needed to stay sharp. No succumbing to the luxury of personal feelings or the insidious weakness of friendship. He thought briefly of the Professor for a moment. None of his voodoo was gonna save his brother. There was only one source of magic this time, and she was right here, cold and sleek under his hands.

_Focus._ He had to stay focused. He felt himself sliding under again.

He adjusted the elevation turrets slightly. _Not much – there was so little wind._ In the greater cosmic scheme of things, at least the elements were on his side today. He sighted up the crosshair for maximum effect, just to the side of the target's head, lining it up with precision, until he settled at point blank range. Not the centre of the forehead like they showed in the movies. As usual, the movies got it wrong. The centre was the toughest, most dense part of the skull. It was better to be one hundred per cent sure. Just a single, well-placed shot was all it took. And Edgerton knew how to place them. A simple shot right above the target's ear and his head would explode like a melon.

_Ironic that the centre of the reticle was formed in the shape of a cross. _

He put gentle pressure on the trigger. The shot itself would be perfect. Both he and the gun were in rock steady alignment, as if they had fused into one. A good trigger was like a good woman. She would always respond to his touch. A little more pressure and a faultless trigger pull. This much he _was_ in control of. As for the rest - what happened afterwards – well, that was in the lap of the gods.

The squeeze was effortless, as smooth as silk. He knew the second the bullet left the gun. Unerring on its deadly trajectory as his sights remained exactly in alignment. Not a trace of flinch, no kick back. _Oh, yeah, it was one hell of a shot. _He confirmed his kill, as he always did, by watching the end result through the ocular. _And as for the target? _

_At the end of the day, melon was a pretty good analogy. _

The man dropped like a bag of cement but his hand jerked reflexively forward. It was hard to gauge the force of the knife stroke from this distance, impossible to see the damage it might have done. Both target and hostage crashed down to the ground in an ungainly twist of limbs. A blossom of red like a crimson rose was just visible on Don Eppes's skin.

**TBC**

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	2. Chapter 2

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_**Happiness is a Warm Gun**_

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**Author: - Lisa Paris**

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_**Part Two**_

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He stuck out like a sore thumb at the hospital. _What the hell, he had never liked these places._ He stood on his own by the coffee machine and kept his distance from the rest of Eppes's team. The ER was a seething tide of humanity, packed with too much pain and emotion. It made him feel ill at ease and edgy_. What the hell was he doing here?_

He probably should have packed up his baby and gone back to his motel room. This was the part he never got involved in – the physical aftermath of a job. He found it messy and uncomfortable. Not the surgical severance he liked.

It had been fast and furious since the end of the _'incident'_ and he'd been kinda swept along on the tide. Megan Reeves had taken it for granted he would hitch a ride with her, that was once she'd determined her boss was still alive. _Still alive _– it was an optimistic estimation. _Just alive_ was a more realistic point of view.

The target's hand had jerked forward and the knife had cut deep through Eppes's neck, slicing its way through skin and superficial fascia to the more important structures beneath. Not with the force of an instant killing blow – in one way, Eppes had been lucky - but still enough to pierce his jugular vein and bruise the adjacent carotid artery.

_Yeah – in a way, Eppes had been kinda lucky,_ Edgerton liked to look on the bright side. Another couple of millimetres in the direction of that artery and he definitely would have been toast. As it was, he'd lost several litres of blood and the surgeons were still fighting for his life. But if the outcome was good, and they managed to save him, at least his spinal cord was intact.

So, here he was, at the hospital. _Perhaps he was human after all?_ The unwarranted thought made Edgerton twitch his lips into a parody of a smile. At the same time, it was disconcerting. This sentiment – this loss of distance. The feeling of real and undeniable connection he felt with another man's life. It was against all the tenets he lived by.

_Could it be he was losing his edge?_

Edgerton frowned and took a mouthful of coffee. Or something which claimed to be coffee. It was hot and wet and brown in colour, but smelled oddly like camel's piss. _And yeah,_ he screwed his face up; _after several years in Afghanistan, he happened to know what that smelled like._ In theory, he'd done far more important jobs. _Top profile targets, higher risk kills_. Skilfully, and with clean efficiency – mark, shoot, confirm, then away.

Other than in the scheme of national significance, not one of them had meant a thing to him. But this one – _this one was different._ He was forced to acknowledge it honestly. This one _had_ been important. These damned Eppes's had gotten under his skin.

"Agent Edgerton?"

And talking of Eppes's, it was the professor. He was looking wild-eyed and ragged. His face was tense with anxiety, almost as pale as his brother's had been. Edgerton crumpled the empty coffee cup and threw it into the waste bin. _Just great - this was all he needed._ Another dose of emotional onslaught. If he knew the crazy Prof, _and he was damned sure he did, _he was about to undergo the third degree.

He should have turned Reeve's offer down flat, and done what he always did. Should have picked up the gun and walked away - escaped while he still could.

He didn't do people – they should know that by now. He didn't do consequences and outcomes. None of this bleeding heart, consoling stuff. In the end, he only did his job. And his job never involved anyone else. It was him – just him and his target. Just him, a gun, and a co-dependant link. _The link between a hunter and his prey. _

"Professor," he nodded, abruptly.

He would get this over and done with, and get out of here as quickly as possible. He didn't want a plenary or a post-mortem. Didn't want to analyse it yet. All of the details would go into his report. As clearly and succinctly as ever. The professor or whoever could read it then and make of it what they would.

"I – I heard you took the shot that saved Don's life?"

_Or ended it,_ the thought came unbidden. _Wrong _– it had been a no-brainer. Eppes was dying of asphyxiation, choking and starved of air. Reeves had been given no choice back there; there was no other possible decision. No viable option but to risk the shot and live with the likely result.

"Yeah, I made the kill. It was no big deal. Just doing my job." He chose the words cruelly, deliberately. _So cold_ – the starker, the better. There was nothing emotional about what he'd done – no trace of sentiment involved.

The professor nodded, a twisted look on his face. It was considering and strangely knowing. As though he understood perfectly and was searching for the right words to say. _Here we go,_ Edgerton snorted. _Damned voodoo magic, again._ The Prof was up to his usual tricks and using the freaky mind-ray on him.

"I – we appreciate it. I just wanted to say thank you."

All traces of the mind ray had gone up in smoke. Edgerton frowned and looked closer. The words were husky and almost bewildered. For all his crazy, brainiac hoodoo, the Prof sounded lost, like a child.

"Hey, no sweat."

He made an effort to lighten up a little. Wasn't the Prof's fault his priorities were screwed. In the chaos since this morning's siege had been broken, he'd forgotten just how close these brothers were. There'd always been an edge between him and Charlie. A slight hint of a testosterone thing. Intellect and math _versus_ instinct and experience - just enough to keep him on his toes.

But there was no sign of ego anywhere now. The Prof was hunched over and vulnerable, he looked like a child playing dress-up. Shoulders lost inside the corduroy jacket that looked at least one size too big for him.

"Just wish he'd gone down with no trouble. Wish I could've made a clean shot. They were moving, the guy had gotten kinda agitated. Don's head was bobbing around too much. Couldn't take the chance and risk a hind-brain drop." He was compelled to reach out and put a hand on Charlie's arm. _Godammit, he was actually feeling guilty_. This was why he didn't do people – why he steered clear of the aftermath. He cleared his throat and did the best he could. The Edgerton equivalent of a hug. "Your brother's one tough hombre. He'll pull his way clear through this."

Charlie swallowed and nodded abruptly. "I hope so, I really hope so. It's just, you know, the whole waiting thing."

_Nope, he didn't know._ Not really. He had no experience of this type of waiting. He was far more used to another kind and its purpose was very different to this.

Sometimes, back in Afghanistan, he'd be dug-in for days, even weeks at a time. Just him, some basic supplies and a gun – simply waiting as the hours ticked by. He'd become a kind of human chameleon, highly adept at blending into the landscape. He could melt into the rocks and purple shadows, camouflage himself to suit any terrain. Now, that kind of waiting, he _did_ understand. To him, it came as naturally as breathing. A positive state of contemplative calm, almost akin to meditation.

"Yeah," he lied without compunction. _Didn't need to upset the Prof anymore, he was already distressed enough._ So, okay, he might not understand the voodoo, but he had a sneaking fondness for the guy. Fondness and a healthy dose of respect, just like he had for his brother.

_They broke the mould when they turned out these Eppes guys. They were unique, only two of a kind. _

"Anyways," Charlie shuffled and looked uncomfortable. "I wondered where you were staying. You know, you'd be very welcome to come back to the house with dad and me. Don won't . . . Don won't be needing his old room for a while, and well, it's got to be better than a motel."

_How the heck was he gonna get out of this one?_ Edgerton heaved an inward sigh. So much for the privacy of a _forty dollar a night_ motel room. He preferred the stark simplicity - the anonymity it offered. A couple of hours spent taking care of his gun and writing up his report. Get the priorities out of the way before he ever got around to himself. Then a shower, a shave and a fresh change of clothes – he was nothing if not a creature of habit. A steakhouse, a bar, and all the whisky he could handle. And then, almost inevitably, a woman. One more assignment over, another memory erased. His own special way of wiping the slate clean - all in the space of twenty-four hours.

_At the end of the day, life had taught him there was only one thing he could rely on. _

He hadn't been to the Eppes house yet, but he'd heard enough about it from Sinclair and the others. Home cooked food, fluffy towels and family photographs. To him, it was an alien concept.

"I'm booked into a motel on Wilshire. Already paid a deposit." The words came out dry and kinda churlish. _Damn - what was it about this man?_

"Okay – sure. Um, sorry, I should have realised." Charlie nodded, and took a step backwards. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. For some reason, Edgerton couldn't fathom, he seemed to shrink into the outsize jacket even more.

"Wait," the word came out before he could stop it. Edgerton shook his head in amazement. _Right now,_ he realised, looking down at Charlie_, he was seeing the world from Don Eppes's point of view._ No wonder the poor guy found it hard to say no. No wonder he was so protective of his brother. There was something helpless about the Professor that was kinda reminiscent of Bambi.

"Okay, thanks," he gave a sigh of resignation. "I can work something out with the motel.

**TBC**

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	3. Chapter 3

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_**H is for 'Happiness is a Warm Gun'**_

**Author: - Lisa Paris**

**Summary: - At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . . **

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_**Part Three**_

The good news was Eppes made it through surgery. _And the bad news?_ He was on his way to Charlie's house. Edgerton sat uncomfortably (_the word seemed to sum him up today_) in the back of Reeves' SUV, his gun case across his lap. He ran his fingers reverently over the hand-tooled leather. He needed to be somewhere private. He needed to shut the door on the world and lavish some time on his gun.

It was air-con cold inside the government vehicle. He stared out at the rush hour traffic. The sun bounced and flashed off the paintwork and chrome from the long line of trucks and cars. Late afternoon in Los Angeles and thousands of people were heading out of the city. Back to wherever they came from, like long streams of worker ants. Edgerton shook his head at his folly – regretting his moment of weakness. By now, he should be leaving his motel room, just in time to enjoy happy hour. This was way off his usual game-plan of post-op routines and rituals. He was starting to feel antsy and more than a little on edge.

He'd been greatly relieved to hear Eppes was alive. That the surgeons had managed to save him. He would be on a ventilator for the next few days, until the swelling in his throat went down. It was a kind of double-edged sword in a way. Good news that came with a caveat. Edgerton had known the truth of it ever since he'd seen the first rush of blood. The doc's might have sewn-up the torn jugular, and pumped some life-saving blood back into his body, but Eppes was nowhere near well by a long chalk. He wasn't out of the woods just yet.

Soft tissue injuries involving the throat were notorious for causing airway obstruction. Edgerton had been in combat long enough to have seen this type of injury before. Soldiers who never made it off the front-line. Who died before the medevac got to them – wide-eyed and clawing in terror at their throats as the rapid swelling choked them to death. Even a crude field tracheotomy hadn't always been enough to save them. Not if they'd been shot in the neck and the blood had run down into their lungs.

Edgerton closed his eyes and centred himself. This was LA. It wasn't Afghanistan. Eppes was strong and he'd been treated in time. He was stubborn enough to pull through. They'd transferred him straight to the ICU the minute he'd come out of surgery. Edgerton and Charlie were going back to Pasadena while Alan Eppes stayed for the night.

The Prof had been hanging together –_ just_. He'd nearly lost it when he went up to see his brother. Although he'd been trying valiantly, it wasn't hard to see the trauma in his eyes. Edgerton faced a few hard truths about himself as he struggled with some unaccustomed feelings. For the sake of the Prof – if nothing else – he was kinda glad he'd cancelled that motel.

"So, this your first visit to Charlie's house?" Reeve's voice jerked him out of his funk.

"Yeah," he caught her glance in the rear view mirror, and added dryly, "first time I've had the pleasure."

"Oh, you're in for a treat then, I hope you're not on a diet?" beneath all the fatigue and anxiety, there was an unholy gleam of something_, was that humour in her eyes? _"Alan Eppes is one of the best cooks in town. All the comforts of home."

"So I've heard," he kept his tone level, well aware she was laughing at his expense. "It was nice of the Prof to ask me."

"No problem," Charlie still sounded a tad uncertain as he swivelled around in his seat. "Like I said, it's the least I can do, and anything's better than a motel."

_Not anything,_ Edgerton didn't bother answering. _The Prof clearly had no idea._ He suddenly discovered he was glad of it, and the thought gave him a stab of amusement. _Hallelujah for all the babes in arms_ – _hallelujah for their starry-eyed ideals. _Maybe it was worthwhile waging bloody wars simply to preserve some of their innocence. It gave him an unexpected grain of comfort to know there were still a few folks like the crazy Prof out there.

It was not the same with the Prof's older brother. In Don Eppes, he recognised a kindred spirit. The man had travelled to the dark side and back. Seen too much of man's inhumanity to man.

Edgerton contemplated the curly head in front of him. It was amazing these two were related. Amazing that two such dichotomies could still be so very close. He'd known Don Eppes for nearly a decade now and the man was intensely private, so guarded with any personal details that Edgerton had respected him at once. When they were both at Quantico, the man never spoke of having a brother. This made it all the more curious the first time he met the Prof. If he'd been asked to pick him out of a line-up, he wouldn't have pegged Charlie for Eppes' brother. Other than the more obvious racial traits, on the surface, they were nothing alike.

Until you got to know them, of course. Then, the similarities started to hit you. Both men were exceedingly stubborn, talk about your control freaks. Both of them needed to know all the details and be in charge of the show. But still, that initial meeting with Charlie had come as a big surprise.

The LA sniper, causing big panic. Several targets, all apparently picked at random. And everywhere he looked, a hippified professor, tripping over him and getting up his nose. _Oh, yeah, it had been the ego thing back then._ Edgerton shook his head and smiled as he remembered. The Prof had been working on overtime, trying real hard to impress his big brother. With hindsight, things must've been fragile between them. Kinda tenuous, even then. Charlie had been seeking approval from Don, like a puppy-dog, eager for a scrap of bone.

Edgerton had wondered about it. Just like he was wondering now. He recalled Eppes had left home pretty early. There was clearly some sort of estrangement between the two brothers but he figured it was none of his business. After all, family was family. And for the most part, family matters stayed private. As long as it didn't get in his way - he'd been sent out to do a job.

All in all, it had been an interesting few days. Being with the Eppes was never boring. He'd come to respect Don Eppes even more – the man was damned good at his job. And although he'd rather cut his tongue out than admit it, he learned some mighty interesting stuff from the Professor. So much so, he actually invited him back East to give a talk to his cadets at Quantico.

But the most interesting thing he learned all week was what Don Eppes really thought of his brother. When they eventually cornered the bastard, he'd been about to let-loose a killing-spree on the civilians in a busy plaza. He'd never seen Eppes lose his much vaunted cool, until the guy took some pot-shots at the Prof.

It was patent there was history between them. Obvious it hadn't always been plain-sailing. And yet, Edgerton kinda envied them, and the palpable bond they shared. Looking back, he'd also left home early. Left home and never looked back. Maybe it was why he'd slid with such consummate ease into the lone-wolf existence of a sniper.

There was more, so much more, to being a good sniper, than excellent marksmanship. The job was all about attitude. It was a cerebral thing. Over the course of the last decade, he'd taught a variety of cadets. All of them especially hand-picked because of their ability with a gun. Very few of them had actually made the grade. Even fewer had made the cut. And nine times out of ten, at the end of the day, it had nothing to do with their shooting.

Snipers did not make good buddies. As husbands and fathers, they fared even worse. They were usually consummate loners and not much good at the whole family thing. Once you formed social relationships, it was easier to relate to your targets - easier to set foot on the disastrous path of putting yourself in their place.

"Here we are."

Reeves pulled into a driveway shaded with flowering trees and shrubs. The wooden framed eaves of a Craftsman house basked in the mellow evening sunlight. It shrieked comfort and much-loved family home. Everything he usually avoided. A million miles away from his comfort-zone – the place was an anathema to him.

Edgerton stared out of the window and regarded it with a sinking heart. He knew this was going to be a big mistake. He should have stuck with his usual routine.

_Should have put his gun first and gone back to the motel. _

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The inside of the house was just like he'd imagined. Warm and woody and welcoming. Filled with all the memento's and detritus of a happy and chaotic family life. He was surrounded by carefully chosen pictures and haphazard stacks of books. The scent of polish and many, much-loved ornaments, positioned with thought and care. Through the doorway into the living area, there were some well-worn, leather chairs. 

Edgerton moved further into the lounge and let his training take over. It had all the usual, tell-tale signs of a hastily vacated room. A discarded newspaper thrown face-down on the floor, the pages scattered untidily – reading glasses left unfolded on the small table next to the chair. The handset from the telephone had not been replaced in the receiver. It lay next to an art deco fluted bowl on an oak console near the front door.

Alan Eppes had received one hell of a shock as he sat reading the morning paper. It was scary how one little phone call could turn your whole world upside down. He'd seen the man briefly at the hospital, and quite frankly, he'd looked terrified. Pale and visibly shaking as Sinclair had brought him inside.

_What the hell,_ he was doing it again, playing the empathy card. His imagination working overtime, as he put himself in another man's place. _He was tired. Yeah, that was it._ It had been a long day. He'd been up since before five this morning. Most of the onus for breaking the siege had damned well been dumped on his shoulders.

_Oh, God, and here were the photographs._ Row upon row of them. The celluloid chronicles of Eppes family life all laid out before him on the bureau. One of them, in particular, caught his eye. He permitted himself a small smile. If Eppes made it safely out of all this, it would be useful (for strictly blackmail purposes, of course,) to know that under all the military-style severity, he had inherited the wayward family hair.

_If Eppes made it safely out of this_. Edgerton put the photograph down abruptly. _Once again, what was he doing here?_ He gave his head a metaphorical smack. He was setting himself up for some real grief – setting himself up for a tumble. If Don Eppes died and he was staying here, right in this house, there would be no escaping the emotional fallout.

"That's Don when he was two years old," Charlie spoke softly beside him. "Just before he insisted on a buzz cut. He couldn't wait for them to cut all his curls off – apparently, it broke mom's heart. Funny - " His voice wobbled slightly. "Even then, Don always knew what he wanted. He's always been so independent and sure of his path through life."

Right. _Did the Prof really think that? Could he actually be that naïve?_ Edgerton felt like he was trespassing on a big case of hero-worship. "I'm not sure it's always as simple as that." He tried to redress the balance a little. "It's kinda been my experience that no one's as confident as they seem." He thought of Eppes, so up-front and sure, and raised a rueful eyebrow. "Appearances can be deceptive. Even when it comes to your brother."

Charlie was thoughtful for a moment. "I guess I need to re-phrase things somewhat. Don may _not_ have always felt confident, but he always seemed that way to me."

Once again, Edgerton got the feeling he was seeing things through Don Eppes vision. It must have been tough growing up in this house when you weren't allowed to have feet of clay. Hero-worship was tough from both points of view. It was a hell of a lot to live up to. It was easy to see how Charlie's profile of his brother had shaped the man Don was today.

Anyway – far be it for him to judge? _And why was he playing father confessor?_ It was as though he'd taken over the role of Charlie's big brother and Don Eppes was channelling through him.

Edgerton watched Reeves pull out of the driveway. With her, went his last chance of freedom. He was stuck here, with the Prof in Pasadena, whether he liked it or not.

**TBC**

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	4. Chapter 4

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_**Happiness is a Warm Gun**_

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**Author: - Lisa Paris**

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_**Part Four**_

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So, this was Don Eppes's old bedroom. _No kidding._ If someone had abducted him at random, placed him in here and asked him to guess, it would have taken him all of three seconds to come up with the right answer. Baseball pennants and yet more books. Muted, mossy colours. Everything neat, almost obsessively orderly, just like the man himself.

_Good._ Edgerton looked around him with approval. He could feel his muscles starting to relax. It was the sort of uncluttered space he could deal with – somewhere he could clear his head. Kinda like the way he opted to live his own life, on highly disciplined, methodical lines. _A place for everything, and everything in its place._ The old adage could have been written for him. He needed to know that when he stretched out his arm, he could lay his hand on whatever he wanted. _That_ sort of security had saved his life on more than one tricky occasion.

_Gone to ground, on the run, alone behind enemy lines. Dependant on guile and skill to survive. No place for inefficiency – inefficiency could cost him his life. _

He'd caught a glimpse of what must be the Prof's room as they'd walked along the landing. One of the doors had been slightly ajar and Edgerton had shuddered slightly. An un-made bed and a clothes-strewn floor, hap-hazardly scattered stacks of papers. It was unstructured and crazily chaotic – his first impression of the man himself. But first impressions could be deceptive, and he'd since revised that opinion. The Prof might look and dress like a reject from a rummage sale, but his mind worked on crisp, concise lines.

He sat down on the edge of the symmetrically made bed, and set out his small case in front of him, lining up the rows of numbers until both tumbler locks clicked open. A bag of toiletries and a change of clothes, ironed and folded neatly with precision. Edgerton ignored these items and withdrew an olive green canvas roll.

He undid the ties with a flood of relief - a combination of endorphins and dopamine. Only now, within the confines of Don Eppes's austere bedroom, did he realise how pent-up he'd been. This was how an alcoholic must feel when he unscrewed the lid off the bottle, or maybe even an addict, when he held his next fix in his hand.

Edgerton took the rifle out of its case and laid it carefully down on the counterpane. He made sure she was unloaded – _God, he could do this in his sleep. _Such a basic rule, it went without saying, and yet, the cause of most firearm accidents. It usually happened to the gun-toting public – a pro always respected his weapon.

There was an angle poise reading light next to the bed. He switched it on, and tilted the shade, until the beam of light shone exactly where he wanted. His hand brushed a book on the nightstand and he paused to examine the title.

_The Book of Mercy,_ by Leonard Cohen. Edgerton picked it up and shook his head. For all their inescapable predictability, sometimes, people never ceased to surprise him. So, Don Eppes was into the spiritual – it was a side he kept hidden well. He'd always known the man was intensely private but this was something he hadn't suspected. Cohen's interpretation of the psalms was both esoteric and poetic. Underneath the terse and direct manner, Eppes was a real dark horse.

Funny, if he'd been asked to say which one of the brothers would be more into exploring the mystical, Edgerton wouldn't have thought twice about it. Almost without thinking, he would have chosen the Prof.

He pondered it a little harder, and with hindsight, the muddy waters became clearer. The Prof was firmly rooted in the logical – as an intellectual, it made a lot of sense. All his beliefs would be provable and resolutely based on reason. In spite of his bohemian appearance, the Prof was a mathematician through and through. His whole life was based on calculation. On the configuration of numbers. _Hell,_ Edgerton was prepared to wager on it, _he probably used some kind of algorithm even when he was having sex. _He winced and shook his head with a grin – _the Prof and sex_ - now that was seriously disturbing. All these genius, crazy hoodoo Professor-types, did they even know what sex was?

It must be nice to be so black and white. To be able to see things so clearly. There was a scientific explanation for everything.

_If there wasn't, it simply hadn't been worked out yet. _

His own life was shrouded in shades of grey. Submerged in blemished and flawed morality. This was why he fought to keep his head together – why he lived such a tightly ordered life. The answer _had_ to remain the same. There was no room for doubts or uncertainties. There was only one ethos behind what he did, no matter who the target. Always the same set of values, in-spite of the nature of the job. He was a sniper, not a random killer, nor a sanctioned, government assassin. He was a trained and highly skilled hunter.

_He was working for the greater good_.

It only took him a minute or two to set out all his equipment. He worked with practise and quick precision – this was what his fingers had been itching for ever since he'd finished the shoot. Bottles of bore cleaning solvent and gun oil, a roll of fine gauge steel wool. Some carbon-fibre cleaning rods and patch holders, all made of top quality brass. There was a selection of varying brushes – the purest bristle, of course – a tube of metal polish and a packet of soft, cleaning swabs. He replaced the gun down on a protective cloth, one of the Eppes's fluffy guest towels.

_Only the best for his baby – only the best for his girl. _

He removed the bolt from the rifle and screwed the scope covers on. Then he inspected the bore for dirt and residue by holding it up to the light. Edgerton worked through the familiar procedure and felt the tension seeping out of his muscles. The day's build-up of pressure started to fade as his mind and his body relaxed.

The customary ritual and rhythmic movements were soporific and soothing. Cool metal and velvety smoothness of wood – calming, almost sensual to the touch. He screwed the lids back on the bottles without wasting a single drop. He even liked the smell of the solvents. Did that make him some kind of weird junkie? The aphrodisiac scent of _Hoppe's_ gun oil – more potent than _Chanel No.5_.

_Finished._ He exhaled slowly, and began to reassemble the rifle. The world seemed to steady about him, at long last, he felt more centred. So enmeshed in the hypnotic pull of it, he almost missed the knock on his door. There was only one person it could be and the Prof didn't wait for an answer. He came awkwardly into the bedroom carrying a couple of beers.

"Um, I thought you might be ready for one of these. Don always . . ." Charlie stopped, and Edgerton tracked his gaze to the reassembled rifle on the bed.

"Had to clean it. Knew you wouldn't mind," Edgerton continued clearing up his equipment. He quickly flipped open the gun case and stashed the rifle carefully inside.

"Is it _the_ gun?" Charlie stared as if mesmerised. "Of course it is - what was I thinking?" He took a step or two closer. "It's the gun you used to save Don."

"Yeah."

Edgerton felt slightly uncomfortable all over again. He shifted back against the headboard. Obviously, the Prof had an issue with this. He looked shell-shocked, a whiter shade of pale. _He shouldn't have come_ – the doubts surfaced again. _A man like him didn't belong here._ _Nope – he should have listened to his instincts. _Edgerton gave a small sigh.

_What the hell – he really wanted that beer._

Maybe it was time to jolly Charlie along – to try and inject a little humour? He gestured across to the gun case. "Take a look. It's a gun, not a ghost."

The Prof gave him a _'very funny'_ look but came across to the bedside nonetheless. He handed him the beer in silence and stared down at the quiescent weapon. "You know, I still don't believe in them. I stand by what I said to you that day. And yet, I'm fully aware that my brother relies on them – I guess the gun's the tool of his trade."

"Is it?" Edgerton watched as the Prof ran his hand down the stock, admiring the satiny wood. "Now, maybe if you'd said that about me, I'd understand it. But your brother? Well, I'd have to disagree."

Charlie cocked his head thoughtfully. "I'm not saying Don's gung-ho or anything. Quite the opposite, in-fact. I know it always really bothers him if he actually has to shoot at a person."

Edgerton was silent for a moment, remembering the Crystal Hoyle business. Eppes had pulled the fatal trigger (_a damned fine shot_) and he hadn't appeared _bothered_ that day. But it hadn't exactly been run of the mill - the whole affair had turned into a crock. Eppes had been running on high octane and it had caused some awkwardness between them. Subsequently, he'd heard through the grapevine that Eppes had been called to account. Didn't take a genius to guess the upshot – a hot date with Psych 101.

"It should bother anyone to shoot at a person." Edgerton spoke matter-of-factly. "But unfortunately, it doesn't. Not in the sick world we live in, and that's why your brother needs a gun."

"Does it bother you?"

_What the hell kinda question was that?_ Edgerton looked up sharply. He bit back the urge to tell the Prof to go fuck himself and choked it down with his beer.

"I'm sorry." The apology came out in a rush. "I had no right to ask you that question."

"No." Edgerton agreed with him. "You didn't. And I sure as hell don't have to answer it."

He tilted his head and finished off his beer in a single, open-throated swallow. It helped cool the buzz of anger which had flared somewhere in his gut. He thought about Eppes growing up with this – the constant questions musta drove the guy crazy. The Prof was a curious mixture of genius and ingenuous child. And now the guy was looking at him like some kinda wounded puppy. Like it was _his_ fault for getting pissed off with him – no wonder Eppes had left home.

"Look," he found himself saying. "The psycho who hurt Don – he'd already sliced up his own family and he was sure as hell wasn't going to stop there. When your brother made the hostage exchange, he knew I'd be taking the drop shot . . ."

"Wait," the Prof stopped him mid-flow. "You're saying Don_ offered_ to become a hostage? That he – he took the place of someone else?"

_Crap._ Edgerton took one look at the Prof's face and knew he was up to his neck in it. It was painfully, patently obvious, that Charlie didn't know. Of course, Eppes wouldn't have told him. Wouldn't have wanted him to fret about his safety. And his need to protect his baby brother must have washed off on the rest of his team.

"It's his job."

He was being intentionally brutal. This was something the Prof should hear. He knew, with a quick flash of insight, that Charlie probably had very little idea. He only saw what Don wanted him to see – only heard what Don wanted him to hear. For all his work for the Bureau and other agencies – he was still intellectually cosseted. Sheltered from harsh reality and cushioned from the cutting edge.

Edgerton felt something run down his spine. Not dissimilar to a trickle of cold water. He was seeing the world through Eppes's eyes again – experiencing his fears and emotions. Charlie's brain was outstanding, he was undoubtedly a genius, but he probably walked a very fine line between giving advice and being used. And, of course, Eppes knew this. It was why he was so protective - and why he would walk a mile through fire to shield the Prof from any abuse.

A gift like Charlie's was a double-edged sword. Open to such wonderful possibilities. In the right hands, it could be used for good, for the benefit and knowledge of mankind. But it should also come with a warning – a big, fat, danger sign. Genius could be manipulated. It could be twisted around and exploited. Men and women as smart as the Prof tended to live in ivory towers. Art for art's sake – knowledge for knowledge's sake – it was all well and beautiful in theory. But it was the men behind the scenes who pulled all the strings.

_With knowledge came an increase in power. _

He looked at Charlie's face and sighed. The Prof looked stunned and even more miserable. There was no sign of the genius now; he seemed lost and just a little bewildered. Of course, when it boiled down to it, that was exactly what he was. Scared, and feeling out of his depth. Terrified for his brother's life.

"Come on," Edgerton peeled himself off the bed in a single, fluid movement. It was time to change the subject and get the Prof some food before he faded. "It's getting late and it's time we ate. I'm thinking pizza, I'm thinking more beer. So, come on, Professor, make the most of it. I'm on company time and expenses."

_Just who was looking after whom?_ Edgerton smiled ruefully. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he was a chaperon rather than a guest. The thought gave him a twitch of amusement. _Oh, yeah, Don Eppes was gonna love this._ It was kinda like leaving Little Red Riding Hood alone with the Big Bad Wolf.

_Eppes._ He sobered immediately. Eppes was the real reason he was here. _Couldn't get the hind-drop and the knife jerked forward_. And Don Eppes was still fighting for his life.

**TBC**

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**_The 'it's a gun, not a ghost,' reference comes from 'Sniper Zero' where Charlie tells Edgerton he doesn't believe in guns and Edgerton responds with the ghost crack. _**

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	5. Chapter 5

_**I'd just like to say a big thank you to Patty and Oz and all of my other unsigned reviewers. Just because I can't thank you in person, it doesn't mean I don't appreciate all the kind words and thoughts. I do. Hugely. **_

**_Lisa._**

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Happiness is a Warm Gun**_**Author: - Lisa Paris**

**Summary: - At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . . **

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_**Part Five**_

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The pizza wasn't too bad for West Coast pizza – well, put it this way, he'd tasted worse. Considering it had been such a bitch of a day, he was surprised at how hungry he was. It was a warm and sunny evening so they ate outside in the yard. By the time the sun dipped over the horizon, he was mellow with food and beer. He almost felt contented; _that was, if he didn't think too hard. _

It was a crying shame the same thing couldn't be said for his host. Edgerton tried not to let it irritate him. The only thing spoiling the evening's tranquility, was the Professor's antsy behaviour. Edgerton watched him covertly, he'd left him at least half the pizza. Charlie picked off all the slices of salami but he was wretched and clearly on edge. He forced down a few miserable mouthfuls, but truth was, he scarcely ate a thing.

"Won't help your brother if you make yourself sick." Edgerton stated the obvious. "Go on, eat the rest of your pizza. It'll help if you have another beer."

"Will it?" The Prof spoke so quietly, even Edgerton had to strain his ears. "There's only one thing that could possibly help right now, and he – he isn't here."

"Nope - " Edgerton regarded him with patience. "You're right, he isn't. And if he was, he wouldn't be very happy. From what I know about your brother, he wouldn't want you to worry like this."

"He's in the hospital, on a ventilator. How can I not worry?" Charlie pushed his plate to one side and a pizza crust fell onto the grass. He looked straight up into Edgerton's eyes and spoke again with a sudden flash of temper. "Do you know what I had planned for tonight? I can assure you it certainly wasn't this. I was supposed to be speaking at a black tie, aero-space dinner. One of the guests of honour - I _even_ hired the jacket. Then once again, my brother's job intervenes and I have to cancel my plans." The Prof's voice trailed off into horrified silence as he realised the implication of his words. His face went several shades of red, and then faded to ghastly white. "No – _I'm sorry_ – that came out all wrong. I don't mean it the way it sounds."

_Just what had he gotten into here?_ Edgerton sat back in silence and watched the tide of colour ebb and flow on Charlie's skin. He wasn't offended on his own behalf – in a way, it was wryly amusing. A reluctant host and a reluctant guest. Perhaps he'd wandered into a farce?

"Why be sorry?" he kept his voice neutral. "Honorary speaker, black tie dinner – it all sounds mighty impressive. I guess it's only natural to feel a little pissed off. Your brother and I messed up your plans. "

"I didn't mean it the way it came out," to his credit, the Prof was clearly devastated. He put down his beer with shaking hands, his eyes filling with unshed tears. "The honorary thing, the dinner – they're not – they _never_ have been important. Those kinds of things, those people, they don't mean a thing to me. It's just that sometimes, I hate it. I hate that Don's out there. And knowing he did it voluntarily – that he willingly offered himself as a hostage."

Edgerton gave a sympathetic nod. It was time to teach the Prof a gentle lesson. Time to put a few things in perspective and make him realise the cold, hard facts of life.

"Of course, I understand what you're saying. You'd rather he ordered Reeves to do it. Or maybe either Granger or Sinclair? Why should he lay his own life on the line? Don _is_ team leader, after all."

The Prof was looking truly shattered now, but Edgerton felt little compunction. He was merely doing what had to be done, saying what needed to be said.

"Damn you." The words were defeated and whispered. "Damn you for being right."

"When I said it was his job, I meant it." Edgerton still wasn't pulling any punches. "What we do, sometimes it isn't pretty. It's messy and dark and bloody out there. We deal with the worse life has to offer. It's just about as ugly as it gets."

"I know." The Prof snapped back at him. Some of his colour had returned now, and Edgerton was pleased to see a little cleansing anger. "I work with Don, remember? You don't have to lecture me about his job - I know how ugly it gets."

"You do, huh?" Edgerton shook his head. "You might _think_ you do, but do you really? _I think_ you only see what Don wants you to see. Professor, you have no idea. Your brother – he knew what he was doing today. He did the only responsible thing. He couldn't send another member of his team out there; how could he ask someone else to do it? _He_ made the trade and laid his own neck on the line. _He _saved that hostage's life."

"At the cost of his own?"

"Yeah, maybe." Edgerton gave a nod, and sat forward. There was a trace of anger in his own voice now, as he looked Charlie dead in the eye. "Damned straight - it's an occupational hazard. He knew when he signed up for this - it was always gonna be on the cards. So, don't you get angry about it. Don't you go punish your brother for doing one hell of a job."

The Prof went silent after that. He appeared to be deep in thought. There was something so vulnerable about him, something fragile and eternally young. It was difficult not to think of him as some kind of kid, let alone a distinguished and lauded professor. In a moment of sharp-edged clarity, Edgerton saw the other side of the coin.

It couldn't have been all that easy, growing up in Don Eppes's wake. Don had been stronger, the athlete. The budding baseball star. And the Prof? Edgerton felt a slight tweak of guilt. Don had told him a few snippets about it. The Prof had been the weedy little math geek. Edgerton could imagine what he'd been like at school, he must have seemed like a precocious alien. Kids were remarkably cruel and unforgiving, so those days must have been pretty tough. No wonder the brother's turned out like they did. _The protector and the protected. _

Edgerton watched the Prof and wondered.

_Maybe he'd been a little too hard on him?_

"Thank you." Charlie surprised him. "Thank you for putting things in perspective. You must think I'm a total ass for making this all about me?"

_Good for him. That must have taken some guts_. Edgerton smiled at him lop-sidedly. "Nah – I don't think you're a total ass - just fifty per cent of one. Look," he paused, before continuing. He kind of owed the Prof an explanation. "Today, when your brother did what he did, he didn't do so irresponsibly or recklessly. He had back-up and tac-teams in position. He took a calculated risk."

"Then, what happened?"

It was an entirely reasonable question. The Prof had every right to ask it. So what, if it made him feel uncomfortable? In the end, it had been down to him. Edgerton sighed, and finished his beer. There was no easy way of saying it. He put the empty bottle on the table beside him and decided it was better to be honest.

"Scumbag used your brother as a human shield." _Here goes – the Prof wanted to hear it._ "Held Don in a choke-hold in front of him with the hunting knife at his throat. Time was running out for all of us – there was no chance of negotiation. This guy might have gone psycho, but there was no doubt he was Special Forces trained. He was cutting off Don's air supply - I had no choice but to take the shot."

"And the knife jerked."

"Yeah. The knife jerked. Don was already unconscious; he couldn't move his head outta the way. Because of the way the guy held him, I couldn't make a hind-brain drop."

To his credit, the Prof didn't lose it. He merely braced himself and gave a thoughtful nod. "You mean you couldn't do the _Bravo Two Zero,_ SAS thing, and shoot him so there was no muscle reflex."

"In the _apricot_." Edgerton confirmed it with a spark of surprise. Who would have thought the Prof had even heard of it. "And yeah, the SAS may have perfected it, but it's the Holy Grail for any good sniper. The junction where the brain meets the brain stem. It's the optimum _'one shot, one kill,'_ spot. And no, in this case, it wasn't possible. To save your brother, I had to make sure I dropped him, but I couldn't control the muscle jerk."

"It's not your fault." The Prof looked up at him with sudden perception. _And, God damn it, was that sympathy?_ "You couldn't have waited any longer, or Don would have choked to death."

_Well, hell, that just about summed it all up._ Damned if you do, and damned if you don't. Talk about turning the tables. Somehow, the Prof had hit the nail on the head, and stripped back some of his personal layers. So, okay, he was having trouble acknowledging it, but the problem was, he _had_ been feeling guilty. It was back to the same old, same old.

_What the fuck was he doing here? _

There was something about these Eppes boys that brought him a step closer to humanity. It was a foreign sense of compassion, an uncoiling of warmth inside his gut. The whole thing made him mighty uncomfortable – it was dangerous -_ that_ was what it was. Somehow, they forced him to take a look at his life and realise just what he'd lost. The welcoming house, the peaceful garden, all of a sudden they started closing in on him. Too safe, it was all too domestic, and it made him feel uneasy in his skin.

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He woke a little after six like he always did. Too many years of long habit. It didn't matter what time he went to bed, he was always wide awake around dawn. For a minute, he was thrown by his environment. It took a second to recall where he was. This was no motel, it was Don Eppes's old bedroom. He was in Pasadena, of course.

_Just him and the crazy Prof._

All he could hear was the sound of birds singing in the trees outside his window. There was no early morning traffic roar like there had been back at the motel. Edgerton thought about yesterday once again, his mind chewing over the details. When you broke it down, piece by godamned piece, it had been one hell of a day. He'd come to LA for a conference, it was pure luck he'd been in town. Pure luck – _yeah, right_ - depends on how you look at it.

_It sure hadn't been Eppes' lucky day._

It was a sad old, tired old, cliché. One he'd heard too many times before. Ex-military guy goes psycho, then slices and dices his family. Arms himself with a shotgun and a hunting knife and goes on a killing spree. He then proceeds to shoot a cop and take another civilian hostage. Things had already gone from bad to worse when the FBI arrived on the scene.

Nothing to live for, and no way out. The guy had nothing to lose. He'd already gone too far beyond the pale by the time Eppes made the trade. A senior FBI agent in exchange for a store assistant. In the scheme of things, it was a damned good deal, and even a psycho knew it. Eppes's life had so much more leverage than that of a twenty year old girl's.

_Waiting for Reeves to give the order – lining up the shot through his scope. The realisation that he couldn't get the hind-brain. Oh, yeah, the memory wasn't all that terrific. Charlie sure hadn't been too wide of the mark during their little talk last night._

By the time he left the bathroom, and made his way downstairs, the Professor was already in the kitchen. He was standing by the counter, looking slightly lost, with a recipe book in his hands.

"How's your brother?" Edgerton didn't waste any time beating around the bush. He knew Charlie would have called the hospital first thing for an update on Eppes's condition.

"He's stable." The Prof's voice was husky. "But he's still on a ventilator. Apparently, he's staying in the ICU for at least another twenty-four hours."

Edgerton gave a brusque nod. "That's pretty much SOP. Stands to reason they'll keep him ventilated until they're sure his neck won't swell any further."

"Megan's coming by later to give me a ride to the hospital. I'm, um – planning to spell my dad for a while and spend some time with Don. You're welcome to stay here, if you like, or you could come with me to UCLA?"

Okay, it was no-brainer. Edgerton didn't even have to consider. He'd be able to hitch a lift downtown with Reeves, and gatecrash the FBI building. He'd feel safer, more grounded in the familiar surroundings, and he still had an official report to hand in. Besides, he felt no shame in admitting it, there happened to be a very large part of him which wanted to check out Eppes for himself.

"Count me in," he looked warily at the mess on the counter. "Were you actually planning to cook those eggs or are they part of some weird voodoo experiment?"

Charlie made a vague gesture around him. "I was planning on making Spanish omelette which all sounds quite reasonable in theory. My dad has a really good recipe, but I can't seem to find it anywhere."

Edgerton shook his head with resignation, and shouldered him out of the way. "How about if I cook the eggs and you work the coffee machine?"

"You cook?"

Now why did the Prof find it quite so amusing? Edgerton picked up a paring knife and gave him the killer glare. "Yeah, I cook, and if you want any breakfast, you'd better stop smirking right this minute."

"No smirking – not a sign of smirking," Charlie threw up his hands in mock surrender. "There's no reason why Mister XYY shouldn't know his way around a stove."

"Mister XYY man, huh? This how you talk to your brother?" Edgerton smiled and shook his head, as he began slicing up some tomatoes. "If I was him, I would kick your ass. No wonder he left home."

"The _original_ Mister XYY," Charlie nodded, and poured some coffee into the filter. He paused for a tiny second, his face falling despondently. Then he straightened up with determination, and forced a smile to his lips. "Don was too busy kicking everyone else's ass, almost always on my behalf. If we're talking about genes and genetics, I think he was born with a set of built-in chromosomes. It's as though he's been genetically programmed to protect the entire world."

'_If we're talking about genetics . . .' _

Edgerton grinned and looked at his watch. It was not quite seven am. This was _so_ not his usual start to the day, he wondered if it was even real. Maybe he was still in the throes of a dream – it was all kinda loopy, psychedelic. _Yup - that could be the explanation._ Maybe he hadn't woken up yet?

By now, if he was back in the motel, he would have gotten rid of the woman. He hated those awkward, post-coital mornings, when two strangers woke up in the same bed. Silences and embaressed side-long glances. Stumbling around looking for clothes. A string of half-hearted lies and promises about seeing her next time he was in town. Call her a cab and escape to the bathroom - leave enough for the fare on the nightstand. Stay in the shower a little longer than necessary and hope, when he emerged, she would be gone.

'_If we're talking about genetics . . .'_ Hell, he wasn't aware they were.

The moment was both comic and poignant. Edgerton picked up a shiny green pepper and put the tomatoes to one side. _Yeah - this was most definitely different._ Here he was, first thing in the morning, cooking a Spanish omelette, and talking chromosomes with the Prof.

**TBC**

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	6. Chapter 6

_**H is for 'Happiness is a Warm Gun'**_

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**Summary: - At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . . **

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_**Part Six**_

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Oh, yeah, he _so_ did not like these places. The smell, the décor, the atmosphere. He felt like a fish out of water, but then lately, he did all the time. The last couple of days had displaced him, and not just physically, either. He'd been up-ended out of his solitary niche and pitched headlong into the twilight zone. As he walked the hospital corridors beside Charlie, Edgerton began to wonder what the fuck he'd done to deserve it. What had he done to upset the gods and get sucked into this mess?

Reeves had gone in search of a parking space, so at the moment, it was just the two of them. The Prof was hunched with tension again, lost inside that damned ridiculous jacket. He'd hardly spoken a single word since they'd walked in through the automatic doors. The stress rolled off him in breaker-sized waves as they neared the ICU.

Edgerton gave an inward sigh. Maybe it was time to play pseudo big brother. They'd never mentioned babysitting in his job description when he'd signed up for the FBI. Oh, well, it was no skin off his nose, and in a way, he kinda owed Eppes. And not only Eppes, if he was honest. There was something about the Prof. The guy made him feel sort of big brotherish and brought out his protective side. He surprised himself by placing a hand on Charlie's arm, as they waited for the elevator.

"Your brother's gonna pull through this. Hey, you know that, right?"

The response to his touch was unexpected. Charlie froze like a cornered animal. Edgerton understood then, in a heartbeat, the Prof was wary of personal contact. There were probably only a very few people the Prof allowed inside his space. His father, of course, and his brother, a small number of trusted friends. _Only a very few people,_ and Edgerton knew he wasn't one of them. He'd strayed into forbidden territory, wandered well off the beaten track.

_This_ was why he didn't do people. Why, he literally, stuck to his guns.

He didn't know who to feel sorrier for. The Prof, trapped safe inside his web of numbers, or Don Eppes, the original human shield. The whole thing was a little too Freudian, especially the last analogy. The image of Eppes as a human shield stuck unpleasantly in his throat. _Uh-oh, it was flashback time again._ Edgerton knew it was coming. The pictures replayed round and round in his brain like a grotesque fairground carousel.

_Eppes, choking and helpless, with a knife at his jugular, his air supply rapidly dwindling. Head clamped, neck pulled back and exposed, like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. _

_Oh boy, this thing just kept on getting weirder._ He shook his head to banish the grim pictures. The Prof needed reassurance and verbal attention but eschewed the physical closeness of touch.

"I'm sorry."

He was on the verge of withdrawing his hand, and then suddenly – _and most surprisingly_ - Charlie gave a sigh and relaxed. The Prof sank even further into the corduroy jacket and sagged like a burst balloon. He leaned in closer to Edgerton, apparently grateful for the show of reassurance.

"I know all the practical, logical reasons why Don _will_ pick up and get through this. In statistical terms, the numerical odds are unquestionably on his side. It's just - " he paused, looking terrified and vulnerable again, eyes swimming with dread and uncertainty. All of a sudden, the string of impressive words sounded woefully _de trop_ and out of place. "It's just that he's _Don_. He's my brother. The thought of not having him around anymore . . . I can't – I don't want to lose him."

The elevator pinged at that second and put the lid on any further conversation. Edgerton didn't know whether to be frustrated or relieved as they waited and then stepped inside. The Prof hadn't pulled away from him. _Well, okay, who would have believed it?_ In a crazy way, he felt kind of honoured. It was a little like passing an unwritten test and being initiated into some weird inner circle.

_Whoa – just who was the nut-job here?_ Edgerton gave a sardonic smile. Looking at it from the outside in, he didn't think it was Charlie. At long last, all his years in the field were catching up on him. He must be going soft in the head. It was the voodoo – yeah, that's what it was. It was finally getting to him. It was the same thing he felt every time he met the Eppes, some sort of freaky juju hex.

What was it about these Eppes boys?

Man, they were a real strange brew.

But there was no time for humour, sardonic or otherwise, when they entered the ICU suite. There was a _code blue_ alarm light flashing on the panel above Eppes's cubicle.

"No."

Charlie moved surprisingly quickly and twisted out of his grip like an eel. He made it as far as the doorway before Edgerton managed to stop him. They stood just outside in the corridor, staring in through the open doorway. No one paid them any attention as they watched the ghastly tragedy unfold.

It was mayhem inside the cubicle, filled with medical staff and equipment. There was a crash-cart, and a tray of surgical instruments, the floor was littered with blood-soaked swabs. There were so many doctors crowded around the bed, it was impossible to even see Don.

Edgerton held Charlie tightly. This was what he'd been dreading. Judging by the scarlet mess on the floor, it looked like Eppes had bled out. Bled out and gone into cardiac arrest. _How the hell had this happened?_ There was a sick taste in his mouth. And to think he'd been reassuring the Prof only minutes before.

Suddenly, all the activity ceased and a hush fell over the cubicle. One of the doctors raised his head and stared grimly at the clock on the wall. _Hell_ – Edgerton felt his gut tighten. He knew what the man was going to say. As any last vestige of colour blanched from Charlie's face, he knew that the Prof did too.

"Time of death called at - "

"No!"

Charlie lunged for the doorway again. For such a small man, he was fanatically strong. Edgerton made a swipe at him, but somebody else beat him to it. A man seemed to come out of nowhere and intercepted the Prof at the door. By now, he was all over the place, struggling and incoherent. He tried to wrench away from the other man, whom Edgerton could see was Alan Eppes.

"Charlie, no. You mustn't go in there. It's all right. It isn't Don." The older Eppes grasped hold of the Prof's shoulders, and pulled him into a hug. He repeated the gist of the sentence again, placing careful emphasis on each syllable "It's all right. _It's not Don_. They had an emergency during the night and they needed that room in particular. Don was looking more stable so they moved him across the hall. I promise it's not your brother. Why don't you come see for yourself?"

"N-not Don?"

Thank God, the words had the desired effect. The Prof was dazed as he echoed his father. It looked like someone had pulled the plug on him and he teetered on the verge of collapse. Edgerton exhaled in relief. He wasn't feeling so terrific himself. For a moment, he'd known the true meaning of having the rug pulled out from under his feet. As news went, it was nothing less than a reprieve. Not so good for the poor sap in the room, but pretty sweet from the Eppes's point of view.

He turned his back on the open doorway. Someone else would be grieving today.

And not so bad from where he was standing. A vein did the two-step in his forehead. He might not have been the man holding the knife, but if Eppes died, it would be down to him.

Edgerton waited outside in the corridor. It wasn't his place to intrude. The family needed some time to themselves after everything they'd just been through. He sat down on a back-breaking plastic chair and leant his head back against the wall. It felt good to close his eyes for a second, he was surprised at how shaky he felt.

Thank the lord, it looked like Eppes was going to make it. It was time for him to get the hell out. Time to return to some normality again and get his life back on kilter. This case – this whole assignment – it had been a salutary lesson. He couldn't afford to be second guessing himself every time he went for a shot.

He was the third best sniper in the USA. Or, at least on paper. But despite anything the Professor might say to the contrary, statistics like that didn't mean squat. The two men above him were on active service which meant their kill ratio was higher. It didn't mean they were better. In-fact, he'd bet his pension they were not. This brought him right back to yesterday again. To the moment when he'd squeezed the trigger. Realistically, he knew darn well, no one else could have stopped Eppes from getting hurt.

He supposed that was vaguely comforting – in a screwed-up, Job's sort of way. But it was comfort of the distinctly cold kind when it could have cost him the life of a friend.

_Friend_. There it was – he had said it. Edgerton gave a twitch of a smile. It wasn't quite as hard as he'd imagined. The word kind of rolled off his tongue. Maybe he should buy a pair of slippers? Get a dog, a picket fence and settle down. The thought made him shudder slightly. On the other hand, maybe he shouldn't. He'd chosen this life – or it had chosen him – and a leopard never changed his spots.

Nope – a leopard couldn't change his spots, the old saying was a given. But over the course of a lifetime, just maybe they faded a little. Edgerton shook his head in disgust. _When the hell did he become such a philosopher?_ It only happened when he came to California. They must pump some psychedelic mind juice out into the ozone layer. Or maybe it was being around the brother's Eppes. Perhaps he just ought to avoid them? Weird things happened every time he crossed their path. They both seemed to have some mojo over him.

"Agent Edgerton?" It was Alan Eppes. He looked tired and in need of some caffeine. "Can I get you anything? I'm off in search of a vending machine. Charlie asked if you wanted to go inside?"

This was the part where he should say something. Like what? _He messed up, he was sorry?_ Yeah, he should really say something, but the words wouldn't make it past his throat. What the hell could you possibly say to a man when you might have caused the death of his son?

Of course, he knew he wasn't to blame. He was level-headed enough to accept it. Wasn't his fault the Special Forces dude went psycho. It was fate – it was bad serendipity. A luckless sequence of cause and effect. The whole damned event had gone to hell.

"I'm sorry about Don, Mister Eppes." He settled for the sensible option. So okay, it was a trifle ambiguous, but it was truthful. He really was sorry.

"I know you and Don's team did the best you all could." Alan Eppes regarded him keenly. Edgerton knew, right there and then, that not much escaped this craggy, sharp-eyed man.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Sometimes, doing the best you can – it doesn't always work."

"No." Alan looked sad for a second - like he was thinking of something else far away. He put a hand on Edgerton's shoulder. "But at least _you know_ you tried - that nothing else might have changed things. At the end of the day, it's a small consolation, but it's better than not doing enough."

Edgerton didn't bother answering. The man was being remarkably generous. And the truth of it was, he'd hit the nail on the head. There was nothing else anyone could have done.

"How's Don?" So, okay, it was an abrupt change of subject, but he was maxxed out on all the emotion. He'd had enough of the touchy-feely stuff. He needed to get centred again.

"Why don't you go and see for yourself?" Alan gestured towards the doorway. "My genius son is asking for you - Charlie says it will do you good."

Edgerton raised his eyebrows a little at that, and Alan Eppes shook his head with a chuckle. Both men reached a new understanding as they shared a resigned _'Charlie'_ look. Edgerton was getting to know it quite well. It was a cross between affection and bemusement. Oh, yeah, he'd seen that look before, usually plastered on the faces of Eppes's team.

"Oh, and talking of Charlie - " Alan gave him a perceptive smile. "Thank you for spending some time with him. Don being hurt and all – well, it's always been difficult for him. Having you stay put my mind at rest. It was far better Charlie wasn't here."

"It was good of you both to invite me," To his surprise, Edgerton found he meant it. "And as for spending time with Charlie," he grinned, in-spite of everything, somehow, he just couldn't help it. "Mister Eppes, I can assure you, I always have the best times with your sons."

Alan disappeared off down the corridor. Edgerton watched him retreat. The man explained an awful lot about Don and Charlie Eppes – he was a real classy dude. Edgerton placed his hand on the door. In-spite of Alan Eppes's encouraging words, he still felt as though he was trespassing. Always the outsider looking in.

_The archetypal dweller on the threshold._

The cubicle was hushed and dimly lit, filled with lots of equipment and a bed. Edgerton had been here/done this before, so he knew what kind of thing to expect. The steady hum of the machinery. The click and whoosh of the ventilator. Eppes himself appeared almost superfluous. An afterthought amid all the technology.

"Hey," Charlie glanced up as he entered. He looked relieved and happy to see him. Or perhaps, this was a little self-flattery – he guessed the Prof didn't like being left in here alone. "Dad tells me there's been no further swelling in Don's throat. The medico's are, and I quote: _'cautiously pleased with his progress._"

"That's good."

Edgerton stared at the man in the bed. He was surprised how unsteady he felt. It was more of a shock than he'd realised to see Eppes looking like this. So pale, he was almost transparent, and totally, uncannily still. Eppes was usually so intense, full of movement and so very vital. To see him silent and motionless, the whole thing felt eerily wrong.

Although he wasn't a big man, Don Eppes certainly had presence. He was one of those people who asserted himself the minute he walked into a room. Not by being loud – he was anything but – but when he spoke, folks tended to listen. He had a definite leadership quality many men would give their eye-teeth to own.

There weren't many men he respected. Edgerton openly admitted he was a cynic. Expect the worse of humankind, and it was rare they ever let you down. But once in a while, _just once in a while,_ he met someone who disproved the theory. He'd known it from the moment they'd been introduced. Don Eppes was such a man.

And so were the rest of his family. The crazy Prof and the wise old man. Edgerton trusted his instinct on this and his instinct was rarely wrong. _Here we go again,_ he shook his head. He was _definitely_ getting soft around the edges. So much for being a misanthropist.

Edgerton smiled; _who would have thought it?_ Could it be the world had some potential after all?

Maybe after all these years, he'd been wrong. Maybe it was a nicer place than he'd thought.

**TBC**

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	7. Chapter 7

_**Thanks very much to everyone who read and reviewed this story. I had a lot of fun writing life from Edgerton's POV.**_

**_Lisa._**

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_**'Happiness is a Warm Gun'**_

**Author: - Lisa Paris**

**Summary: - _At the end of the day, life has taught him there's only one thing you can rely on . . ._ **

* * *

When I hold you in my arms  
And I feel my finger on your trigger  
I know that no one can do me no harm  
Because happiness is a warm gun

_John Lennon and Paul McCartney_

* * *

_**Part Seven**_

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****

_14+ 1bs of cold metal weight. 50 inches of sleek efficiency. .338 calibres of deadly intent and 1100+ metre maximum range._ Special Agent Ian Edgerton shifted position slightly, and rested the _Super Magnum (L115A1)_ against his cheek.

He wriggled forward some more on his belly and looked through the ocular at the target. It was a cold, wet day in the capital, oh yeah, he was back in DC, and another minor tragedy was unravelling at speed through his lens. He grimaced slightly as the rain-sodden grass soaked up through the fabric of his pants. _Why was it the angle always required him to lie flat whenever it was wet or raining? _Bet your life if it was a dry day, he'd be able to take the shot off the ground.

_There was a definite name for this law, and he was damned sure it wasn't Murphy's. _

_De facto,_ the weather conditions had been a little different on the last occasion he'd done this. _Right, a little different – more like freaking poles apart._ In fact, all of the circumstances had been dissimilar, back on that heat-shimmering morning in LA.

Oh, yeah, it had been very different, but it was always too much the same. Didn't matter about any of the circumstances, Edgerton guessed it always would be. Whatever the scenario and wherever the place, someone was going to end up dead. This time, it was a gas station. Some punk high on PCP. He was waving his handgun around like a crazy and had already shot and killed two men.

Edgerton lined up the cross-hairs and kept them centred on the target. He barely needed to move the gun as the man paced back and forth. He was holed up in the tiny convenience store which faced onto the garage forecourt. _Asshole _– Edgerton watched, carefully – _the dude was high as a kite._ Didn't even have the smarts to cut out the lights or stay back out of sight of the windows.

There was a cashier trapped inside with him. A terrified teenaged kid. Now would be a good time to shake this thing down – while the target wasn't standing near the hostage. This particular hostage didn't know it yet, but today was his lucky day. _This_ hostage was gonna walk from it all, physically, at least, intact.

_Eppes, white-faced and unconscious. The hunting knife poised and ready. The razor-sharp tip pressed in under his ear for a downward, severing slash._

It's a commonly held misconception, the best way to cut a throat is straight across, but anyone with basic combat training is quickly disabused of that fact. A quick, downward stroke from the base of the ear gives fast access to both major blood vessels. Enough force will sever the carotid artery as well as the jugular vein.

Eppes hadn't walked away that day – he most certainly hadn't been lucky. When it came right down to the crux of it, come to think of it, none of them had. Reeves, Sinclair, the crazy Prof – and, most especially, not Edgerton himself. It was Eppes who would carry the physical scars, but that hunting knife had sliced into all of them. Just as surely as if it had pierced all their skins and shed drops of their own red blood.

But that was then, and this was now. _That_ mission was done and dusted. He'd been back on the East coast for several weeks and life went on much as before. He'd been in the capital for a meeting when his blackberry had first gone off, having lunch in the Old Post Office Pavilion, across the road from the FBI Building. There was something about the Post Office that appealed to him in many different ways. The _over the top_ Victorian style and pompous air of grandeur. He liked the carved wood and ornate marble floors, still redolent with wistful echoes of the past. It was hard to believe, that more times than once, the old building had been threatened with demolition, but she had clung on defiantly, and compounded her triumph by becoming home to the Congressional Bells.

Downstairs, the place was a giant food hall, filled with many choices of cuisine. Office workers would arrive and eat their lunch to the soft sounds of a live jazz combo. Edgerton liked to come in and sit for a while, nursing a large, black coffee. He would spend his lunch hour, very often alone, and watch the world wander by.

He and Eppes had eaten here many times when their visits to DC had coincided. If you took an elevator to the top of the bell tower, you could see all over the city. It had occurred to him on many occasions, it was the perfect vantage point for a sniper. Unless you counted the parties of tourists, of course, or the ever-present security guard.

The view was truly outstanding, on a clear day, it stretched for miles around. Edgerton would take a ride up there in an effort to clear his head. He could see directly across into the tinted office windows of the distinctive, FBI building, and further on, towards the Capitol, at the end of its long avenues. From there, towards the wide expanses of green, and white buildings of museum row. The needle point of the monument, and the river shining beyond it.

When the blackberry went off, he was not happy. For a start, it interrupted his lunch break. And then, there was another, far more worrying reason. The message made him feel apprehensive. It was just one more hostage situation, by now, he had handled his fair share. But something _had_ shifted inside him since the incident out West with the Eppes'.

The sea-change hadn't lasted for long. It became submerged in the routine of normality. In the mundane tasks of gearing-up, and sitting-in on the hurried briefing. In the end, it was the gun which had calmed him. Her smooth contours, the feel of _her_ in his hands. The silky coolness of the metal and polished warmth of the wood. Within minutes, he had re-focused. His brain had straightened itself out. He was now the third best sniper in the USA, and he was ready to get this job done.

A bead of sweat broke out on his upper lip. Edgerton tasted salt. He moved a few more inches forward and felt his body start to relax. Things were getting back to normal again. At long last, he was feeling more grounded. This was what he was best at. Detached, efficient, excellence. Three words which could serve as his mantra.

_Detached, efficient, excellence._ This was what, _he,_ Agent Edgerton, did.

He felt himself sliding into the zone as he adjusted the elevation turrets. There was a pretty stiff breeze to take into account as well as the downpour of rain. _Detach – detach and dehumanise_. Oh, yeah, this shot was gonna be easy. No personal feelings to queer his pitch, no hostage to get in the way. This one was a sure-fire drop. Swift and deadly, straight through the hind-brain. Edgerton knew, with no shade of a doubt, this time, his baby would get the job done.

"It's a go." The order was confirmed through his earpiece.

"Copy." It was only one little word. In actuality, it was a death sentence.

The usual stillness pervaded his mind as he lined up the shot in the crosshairs. He and the rifle flowed into one as the icy calm eased through his veins. There was no sound, no distractions. Nothing to break his concentration. The police, the FBI tac-teams – they all faded away into the background.

It was him – _just him and his baby_ - the two of them in deadly tandem. Linked as they were, by the invisible chain which bound them to the target below. There would be no risks taken this time. There was no question of chance to foul this up.

_A single shot and the situation would be neutralised. A single shot and the target would be down. _

Edgerton inhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger. The lightest touch, just a little more pressure, and then smooth release, as the bullet left the gun. He watched the end result through the ocular. The man dropped, as if cut-down by an axe. The handgun fell from his nerveless fingers and scattered harmlessly across the floor.

"Target neutralised."

It was done. The job was over. Or, at least, his part in it. Edgerton exhaled, dispassionately. His kill ratio just got a little higher. At this rate, if things carried on at this pace, they might have to re-write the statistics. He hoped the dude currently at number two on the list was looking rather carefully to his laurels.

By now, the police and clean-up teams were already on the garage forecourt. Edgerton pushed himself backwards and got up onto his knees. There wouldn't be much left for them to do. If anything, it had been an anti-climax. No injuries, no messy aftermath. The news jackals were going to be disappointed.

Just an alive but hysterical teenager - a dead body to zip into a sack. Edgerton brushed himself down carefully. It was time to take care of his gun.

* * *

"Special Agent Edgerton."

"Special Agent Eppes." Edgerton smiled down at his phone. It was good to hear Eppes sounding so normal. The last time they'd tried a conversation, he'd hardly been able to speak.

"Gathered you had a little outing today."

"You heard, huh?"

"You know how these things burn through the company grapevine. The Federal jungle drums can beat pretty loudly. Even out here, in LA."

"Yeah," Edgerton answered, sardonically. Trust Eppes to get back to him as soon as he heard the news. It was no more than he'd expect of the guy. Don Eppes might be known as a hard-ass, but he was also exceptionally perceptive. He would have guessed that it wouldn't be easy. That there might be some lingering issues. If he knew Don Eppes as well as he thought, the man was calling with a hangover cure. He grimaced. "Tell me about it. Some idiot high on PCP – a turkey shoot, as it turned out."

He could almost see Eppes nodding down through the phone, as he considered what to say next. His reaction was so like his own. The two of them were too much alike. Now, his brother would come straight out and say it, Edgerton grinned a little. When it came to speaking his mind, the Prof had no such finesse. Mind you, he hadn't pulled many punches himself, during the short time they'd spent together. Maybe, in some weird kind of way, it was why they hit it off so well.

The Prof would spout on about opposites – Edgerton could almost hear him now. The law of positives and negatives, and how they must always attract. North and south, night and day – all of that Yin and Yang crap. Edgerton felt his grin widen as he shook his head at the thought. _Yeah – it had been some experience, staying those few days at the Eppes's house._ If the circumstances had been different, maybe he would have even enjoyed it.

"How's your brother?" He pre-empted Eppes's next question by throwing in one of his own. It shut the door on today's shooting incident and indicated the subject was closed.

"Better," it was Eppes's turn to sound wry. "He's gone back to lecturing his students instead of wasting time lecturing me."

Edgerton gave a snort of laughter. Eppes had probably been going crazy. He could just imagine the scenes in the Craftsman house, in the days following Don's release from hospital. In that respect, as in so many others, Eppes was exactly like him. When he was wounded, he preferred to go to ground. To hide away in his lair, lick his wounds and recover, with a minimum of dramatics and fuss.

On the other hand, who were they kidding? In this case, there was no escaping the dramatics. Eppes had risked his life for a stranger and subsequently been stabbed in the throat. The world had gone to hell in a hand basket. _Eppes had so nearly died._ It was easy to laugh at it in hindsight, when it was over and Eppes was all right. Not so easy to forget the time in-between when his life had still hung in the balance.

No – he would never forget it. Or the knowledge he was partly accountable. So, okay, it may have been by default, but some of the responsibility was his. Edgerton thought about Charlie. About his face that first day in the hospital. The grief and blind-stricken terror which had stolen the spark from his eyes. The only good thing to come out of that day was the way they had supported each other.

Yeah – and if Edgerton was being truly honest, it _had_ been a two-way street. Being on hand to prop up the Prof, in a way, it had helped sustain him. He hadn't had any time for self-indulgence. No space to be alone and brood. All of his emotional energy had gone into being Don Eppes's surrogate. It was as though he had channelled the other man and turned into a big brother by proxy.

_Had the Prof done it on purpose?_

He was struck by a sudden suspicion. Had Charlie managed to sense something in him, and act on their polar needs? Edgerton's brow crinkled into a frown. He _so _wouldn't put it past him. Charlie had been so needy that day and the man_ was_ a genius after all. God damn, the more he thought about it, the more it kinda made sense.

Edgerton gave a reluctant smile. _Sneaky, little Professor._

"The Prof's okay," he said, defensively, he still felt oddly protective. The Prof had tapped into that side of him, he knew Eppes would understand. Yeah, he still felt the need to look after the Prof, but he couldn't resist adding a caveat. "You know what, I'm glad he's _your_ brother, not mine. All the math voodoo stuff would drive me crazy. I usually prefer to eat my breakfast in peace – not talk about chromosomes and the like."

"Chromosomes?" Eppes laughed out loud. Even now, his voice rasped a little. "Makes me wish I hadn't been out of it. I'd have paid damned good money to be a fly on the wall for _that_."

"Not the first choice of subject matter when I'm trying to cook my eggs."

"I'll bet." Eppes was silent for a moment. Then: "Hey, you know, I should thank you. Lucky for me you were out in LA. There's no one else I would rather have taken the shot. If you hadn't been there, I'd probably be dead, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Maybe." He hated this. "As you happen to know yourself, there are plenty of other good marksmen out there."

"Not when it's, _literally,_ my neck on the line."

Eppes ignored the reference to Crystal Hoyle. It had left things on shaky ground between them. Edgerton hadn't seen much of Eppes after that, until the damned, hostage crisis had occurred. Not by design, or because of some grudge, he just hadn't gotten around to it. It was one of the first things he'd thought of, when he'd taken the call that day. Oh, sure, they'd run across each other later, during that plane crash business. The time he'd made the drop on Moreles, and gone from fourth to third best shot in the rankings.

He'd cleared straight out when the case had finished. Hadn't wasted any time socialising. It made things mighty uncomfortable when he'd first looked at Eppes through the ocular. In his line of work, there was no place for regrets, another reason why he didn't have friends.

_Except that he did._ Or, so it appeared. Edgerton gave a sigh of resignation. Thanks to his tenuous link with Don Eppes, he'd amassed them along the way. Collected them, almost without knowing it – picked them up, in-spite of all his efforts. And now, he had to face the inevitable. It looked like he was stuck with them for good.

"Tell you what," Edgerton kept it light. "I'll make you a deal. You and the Prof can buy me a beer next time I'm out in LA."

"Done." Eppes paused for a beat. "And another thing I have to thank you for is the way you took care of Charlie."

"I'm not so sure I took care of Charlie," Edgerton decided to speak honestly. "You know, when it all comes down to it, I think Charlie kinda took care of me."

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

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****

It had been good to talk to Don Eppes. In a way, it all kinda dovetailed. After the earlier hostage situation, it was a neat and fitting end to the day. All of the loose ends had been tied up. The ragged threads trimmed into alignment. In theory, he was ready to get on with his life. He was back in the proverbial saddle again.

_In theory, nothing whatsoever was different. So how come everything had changed?_

He stood in front of the washbasin and looked at his face in the mirror. The bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda – all the lines and wrinkles were the same. Every little mark and character nuance the passage of years had bestowed on him. Physically, nothing had altered, and yet, it was undeniable. Edgerton was forced to accept it. He was not the same man who had left his motel room that morning back in LA.

He was alone, he wasn't lonely. He was alone. He liked it that way. _Did he?_ Who was he kidding? Had he simply been living in some kind of fugue, lost and drowning in his own mythology?

Edgerton suddenly felt tired and old. He remembered the first day in the Eppes's house. The bank of family photographs. A whole catalogue of family life and love set out on the sideboard in front of him. His reaction had been one of mockery. It had all seemed so mundane, so prosaic. Like a fantasy you'd see on a sitcom, some sort of grotesque suburban dream.

He considered Eppes back in California. Perhaps they weren't as alike as he thought. In the end, Eppes had turned his back on Fugitive Recovery and found his way back to his family. _Did he envy him?_ That was a hard one. Maybe, if the truth be told. It must be nice to have someone care about you so much that they worried when you didn't come home.

_Freedom._ It was a much vaunted concept, and one he had always espoused. To go when, and wherever, he wanted. No responsibilities, no bindings, and no ties. To pick up and leave at the drop of a hat with no one to fret about him, and subsequently, on the flip side of that, no one for him to worry about.

Edgerton gave a sigh of disbelief. He was wading in dangerous waters. To admit he might be jealous of Eppes' way of life was to arrive at a point of no return. In spite of what the Prof might say, too much thinking was bad for you. He didn't have room for this in his life, and besides, he had a job to do.

He could feel the old itch in his fingers as they reached for the olive green roll, the familiar sensation of release and relief, as he spread out the gun cleaning kit. The soothing scent of the gun oil and esoteric beauty of the instruments. Just seeing them set out in front of him was enough to calm the tension in his gut.

This was how he lived and what he was good at. He was good at taking care of his baby. He didn't do friends and he didn't do people. He was happiest being alone. It was too late to turn the clock backwards. This was the life he had chosen.

_He was the man at the end of the ocular, looking at life through a lens._

**THE END**

**Lisa Paris - 2007**

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End file.
